


Broken Dolls

by RamercyGriff



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RamercyGriff/pseuds/RamercyGriff
Summary: A look into the minds and various neuroses of the characters
Kudos: 5





	Broken Dolls

JASON DEAN...  
... J.D. to his friends, not that he's ever had enough of them to bother...  
... stands in front of his bedroom mirror, brandishing the handgun he swiped from his father's (ha) hiding space. Old Man's away for the night, maybe the next couple nights. He’ll never notice it was gone when J.D. puts it back. If he decides to.

His celebratory New High School slushie didn't manage to kill even an hour. He's vaguely aware that there's a party at someone's house going on to celebrate Homecoming or some shit like that, but even if were invited he's long since learned that the only thing worse than being alone is being alone in a crowd. And the sights and sounds of bustling suburban Ohio somehow don't seem particularly beguiling after Vegas. And so with nothing else to distract him, here's J.D. in a semi-usual place for Friday night, standing and staring in the dim desk-lamp light of New Bedroom Number Fuck It Lost Count, testing how he looks with his dad's Colt and... thinking.

If the pattern holds true, in a moment it will occur to J.D. that he could pop a round in at any time, put the barrel to his head and experience whatever it was Mom had felt in the last few moments of her life. This is not a welcome thought at the moment, so he forces his train of thought onto a different track. His new schoolmates. Yeah, that would do.

Westerberg's denizens weren't proving much different from the assembly-line slaves and blanks at the last seven- eight? nine?- high schools. Big Dumb Jocks (TM. He was already making fast friends with, evidently, the two biggest and dumbest), Neo-MaxiZoomDweebie Ivy League wannabes, asthmatics who wanted you to know that Commodore International had a wonderful plan for your life, and the assorted stoners, delinquents, and burnouts who sensed J.D. was almost-but-not-quite a kindred spirit. All with the same instinct for self-segregation as the kids in Nevada and Texas and Lou'siana, all eager to pounce on the next kid to show the slightest hint of vulnerability, friend or foe- because, hey, at least it wouldn't be YOU this time.

J.D. peels his gaze away from the mirror, navigates around a few piles of dog-eared paperbacks, slips off his flannel and his treasured long-coat over the back of a chair and wonders where he left his flask and drops onto his bed. He's too slightly built to "plop" properly, fair skin stretched tight over lean muscle and skeleton. He rests his elbows on his knees, and clasps one hand over the other, which is still holding onto the Colt. He sits there in a rumpled white t-shirt and denim jeans, staring blackly at nothing in particular. 

Also like his other schools, and, come to that, the Soviet Union, Westerberg has its own culture police, in the form of a quartet of sickeningly color-coded, lipglossed and shoulderpad-clad harpies the student body spoke of in whispers as "the Heathers". Identically named, what a cute touch. For some reason the clique had appointed itself the job of punishing Westerbergers for such transgressions as Having Unauthorized Sex or Forgetting You Are Unforgivably Ugly For Even A Minute.

Except… his mind turns to Heather Number Four. The blue one. Veronica Sawyer (ah, a nonconformist. A girl after his own heart). J.D. isn’t sure why, but he finds himself thinking about her and having feelings which are neither violent nor dismissive. Today’s meeting with her at the Snappy Snack Shack was playing over and over in his head. She had been… cute. Equal parts devious and adorable, with a nervous little laugh he couldn’t get out of his mind. 

His mood is marginally brightened, but he finds it too much effort to maintain. Instead, J.D., feeling uncharacteristically morbid even by his own standards, fantasizes about what it would be like to shoot each Heather in quick succession and watch the expression in their eyes change. Westerberg would be better off, really. Maybe the whole world would, if all the assholes just died.

J.D. reflects that he doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone who actually cares about him. Definitely not Big Bud, and definitely not any in the parade of vapid peers who move fleetingly in and out of his life. He’s not even sure about his own mother. At times when the anger builds up to a frothing peak, he wonders if she walked into that building to get away from him. Even if she didn’t, she clearly hadn’t thought him worth sticking around for.

In a few moments, J.D. will hear a tapping at his window, and instinctually stuff the gun under his mattress near some old skin mags, and shortly after that he will be the happiest he has ever been in his life. For now, though, he merely sits in the darkness of his room with the gun in his grip and he… thinks. 

HEATHER DUKE...  
feels bloated and disgusting. After a few nights of fasting left her feeling slightly lightheaded, cold, and tired, she’d snuck up to her room with nearly a day’s caloric intake and downed it all in one secretive sitting. 

While the guilt of that set in, she tried downing nearly a gallon of water to wash the junk out (she was pretty sure she’d read somewhere that this would work). Nearly halfway through that she’d felt her stomach churning unpleasantly. Only one thing for it now. Better out than in.

After she’s certain there’s nothing left in her to hurk up, she spends a few seconds catching her breath. She feels even more cold and tired and lightheaded but not quite so bloated or disgusting. She thinks her stomach might be a little flatter now, and the angle of her cheekbones possibly a little more pronounced.

Heather’s not sure what set her off this time. Probably one of Heather’s casual criticisms. Heather Chandler was always so helpful in pointing out her myriad little flaws. It was one of the things about her that was just so… very. It seemed to be her gift; you could put hours into your appearance, armor yourself up in self-esteem, and with a casual censure she could cut you right to the bone.

Heather’s usual strategy for dealing with Heather was to generally agree with everything, titter dutifully, and hope Heather McNamara would be the first to fuck up and draw ire. Some days even this didn’t work, and those days often saw Heather Duke crouching over some toilet.

A few more seconds and she hurries about cleaning up the evidence. Her parents would remain none the wiser. There’s a kind of perverse satisfaction in that; nothing she did would ever be good enough for Heather, but she could always take pride in being The Smart One. That title had been Heather Duke’s all her life; a spate of cast-off dweeb friends and Yearbook Committee peons all agreed, so it must be true. She had been reading with Advanced Proficiency since middle school and was the only person she knew who had actually gotten through Moby Dick.

Trying bringing up the subject of reading with Heather Chandler. She’d just default to her “You’re such a fucking loser” glare. McNamara wouldn’t even manage that much of a reaction. Doubtless her eyes would just blank over like they always did when nobody was telling her what to do. Unlike her fellow Heathers she’d never had to barter grope sessions with some gross nerd for a passing essay.

And every day she proved she was clever enough to outsmart the parents, teachers, and sundry authority figures in her life. Nobody had the slightest idea Heather Duke’s… affectation for regurgitation. Heather and Heather were aware of it, sure, but since they didn’t seem to really care, keeping that secret from them seemed not to matter as much. So The Smart One she remained. Heather Chandler could boast the most attention from boys, the most expensive things, and the most legendary reputation, but nobody could take Being The Smart One away from her.

Over the next week or so, Heather Duke becomes aware that something has changed in her life. Veronica Sawyer, the surly little dweeb who used to hang out with Dumptruck and Four-Eyes, seems to be spending more time with the clique. She’s joining in with them as they point and snicker at the losers. Unthinkably, she’s somehow made her way to the Heathers’ table, the most select destination at Westerberg. And lately Sawyer’s been offering Chandler and McNamara homework help. Apparently she’s some master handwriting forger or something. For some reason, Heather Duke hears this and feels her teeth grinding.

Veronica Sawyer cracking Westerberg’s clique boundaries becomes the basis for the spiciest new gossip. Even that dipshit Peter Dawson, who usually doesn’t spare a thought on anything but the next college recommendation, starts bragging about how he “sort of” wend out with her in the eighth grade. Apparently now Veronica Sawyer is some kind of genius, a tried-and-tested child prodigy who was supposed to skip two grades.

Somehow, lunch that day finds Heather Duke at her usual table with only Veronica Sawyer for company. Heather struggles to assume an air of disaffectedness with no overt hostility- after all, for now Heather Chandler has approved of her. Little Miss Perfect Child Prodigy spots Heather’s battered copy of Moby Dick and inclines her head in a noncommittally approving way.

“Melville. Nice.”

Heather Duke feels her insides churning.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first time I've attempted writing anything that wasn't a school assignment, so be gentle with me. You might notice it's all internal monologue because I'm not quite ready to try my hand at dialogue yet (the intricacies of 80s slang remain elusive to me). 
> 
> This is a lot shorter than I'd intended it to be. My original plan was to do seven different chapters, based on the classical sins. I hammered out Wrath and Envy after planning them for a couple days. I have vague ideas about what to do for the other five; if I decide they really HAVE to be written, I guess this will become a series.


End file.
